


Civil Servant

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: Terra Incognita [4]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Domestic Violence, Implied Violence, M/M, Rough Sex, roleplaying, terrible people doing terrible things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 11:41:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5784064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Try a little tenderness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Civil Servant

**Author's Note:**

> While this story doesn't contain what I'd call graphic violence, there is a lot material that could be considered either rough sex or straight up abuse. There is also some material that is unquestionably abuse. This story also has a generally disturbing, creepy tone. Please use your discretion, Dear Readers.  
> The summary is, of course, the title of a song by Otis Redding.  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

He can't see a thing. He says so.  
“You can't wear your glasses,” Oswald answers sternly.  
“Why not?”  
“You're supposed to be me. I don't wear glasses, do I?”  
“I wore them last time. When I was him.”  
“You needed to see, then. You had to push me around. You can't push me if you can't see me.”  
“And now?”  
Oswald gives him a shove. Edward gasps. “I bet it's better since you didn't see it coming,” Oswald says. The pale shape of his face is split by the paler slash of a grin.  
This might not have been such a good idea.  
“What do I do?” Edward asks.  
“Follow my lead.”  
Oswald's fingers dig deep into Edward's arms. Oswald has small hands, but they're strong, and rough in places, which bespeaks a history of manual labor. Edward wants to ask about this, but doesn't dare. Oswald's sensitive about the oddest things. As though there were any shame in working for a living. The other day, the big man who works for Oswald- Gabe- brought by a bag of Oswald's things, and Edward sneaked a peek. Among them was a very expensive hand cream. He can smell it, now. This has to be spoiling the desired effect. Jim Gordon wears a cologne too fine to have been selected by Jim, himself- Edward suspects that it's Dr. Thompkins' choice- but it's still not as fine as Oswald's scent.  
“You should wash your hands,” Edward says absently.  
“What?”  
“I can smell your hand cream. Detective Gordon would never use something like that. We should have planned this better,” he calls to Oswald in the bathroom. The missed opportunities assail Edward. Colored contact lenses. Copies of Oswald's clothes in Edward's size. It'd certainly be easy enough to learn the name of Jim's cologne. Without the props, what's the point?  
“Better?” Oswald asks, Edward's sure, with a sneer.  
“Much. But we still should have prepared-”  
For his trouble, he's shoved against the wall. Oh, he exhales.  
“Enough of your games, Cobblepot,” Oswald snarls.  
It's so odd, being called by another person's name. “I'm not playing any games,” he answers halfheartedly.  
“Everything's a game to you. But I'm sick of playing.”  
“What are you going to do?” Edward asks, feeling as though he's reciting. It was easy enough to pretend to be Jim. Edward sees him everyday. His speech patterns are simple and conventional. He has several distinct tones of voice. The easiest to replicate is the one he uses when he's angry. It never sounds exactly right, though, and it leaves Edward with a sore throat, the next day, but Oswald is happy enough with the fantasy. This is far more difficult. If he gets it wrong, it'll be taken as an insult. Oswald's very, very sensitive about how he's perceived.  
“We're going to do something serious,” Oswald says in a low voice.  
For a second, it's real- this really is Jim Gordon- Edward really is in trouble, and he really is going to get hurt. He feels his head fall back against the wall. The appeal of the game is obvious, if a bit unsubtle for his taste. “Are you going to hurt me?” He finds that he's breathing heavily. Oswald's holding him tightly, with that body that takes up far less space than Jim's, but can still restrain Edward totally.  
“I should,” Oswald says, “I should kill you. Though, you wouldn't mind, would you? You'd definitely go with a smile on your face.”  
“How would you do it?”  
“I should shoot you,” Oswald muses, undoing a button on Edward's shirt, “That's what I should have done when I first met you.”  
“Why?” Edward gasps, “Why do you hate me?”  
“You ruined my life.” Another button.  
“How did I do that?” Edward asks, looking around desperately, though all he beholds is a smear of light and shadow.  
“You made me want you.”  
Edward brings up his hand in the general direction of Oswald's cheek. After a moment's exploration, he contacts skin. “Good. I want you, too.”  
Oswald pulls him downward and kisses him, crushingly hard. Slips a hand into his shirt.  
This is... different. Usually, Edward does all the work, and it's all very quick and efficient, and almost clinical. Not that Edward objects to clinical. A scientific context is still the one in which he knows the human body best. It's comforting. Sex is action and reaction. If he's able to employ a set of actions that guarantee satisfaction for both parties, why should he alter this? It probably bespeaks a lack of both creativity and passion- but creativity is for experiments, where uncertainty can be instructive. Not for sex, where one wants a particular result. And passion? What if it's just not something you feel? What if you just want to make someone feel good while making yourself feel good? What if you just want to be close to someone? What if you just want to take care of them? Kristen had understood that about him, at least. She'd had passion before, found it exciting but frightening, and she'd thought that she was ready to feel safe. For a while, he'd given her that. He'd given her something that no one else could have.  
Oswald, though, clearly still wants danger. Doesn't he get enough of it in his line of work? Isn't that the point? Doing dangerous things is a thrill, and Edward loves it, but he doesn't need, or want it all the time, in every part of his life. After doing something dangerous, does Oswald never just want some relief?  
“Take care of me,” Edward murmurs.  
“What?” Oswald sounds shocked, disgusted.  
“I want you to take care of me. Jim,” he adds.  
“What?” Oswald asks again, his voice harder.  
“I want you to take care of me,” Edward repeats, more clearly.  
He can't see the slap coming- does it hurt less or more because he can't see it?  
“Why did you do that?” Edward asks, his hand on his cheek.  
“That's not what happens,” Oswald spits.  
“You have to tell me what to do, then, because I don't know how I'm supposed to proceed. It was easy with Detective Gordon, because I've had so much time to study his mannerisms, and I think your imagination helps it along, but I'm not sure what you want, now.”  
“Not that,” Oswald hisses, then, with a nasty laugh, “You really don't understand how people work, do you?”  
“Perhaps you could fill me in,” he says, letting his own voice flatten and chill, “Since you seem to know all of the secrets of the human heart.”  
“It wouldn't work, anyway,” Oswald says haughtily, “You don't really know me, at all. And you don't know him, either.”  
This is nonsense. If he's going to be reprimanded by Oswald, Edward at least wants to see him. “May I have my glasses, please?”  
“You might as well,” Oswald says, and brings them to Edward.  
That's much better.  
He grabs Oswald's wrists, spins him as though they were waltzing. Oswald's strong, but he's still compact, and he's still in pain after his accident. It's easy to pin his wrists against the wall. Oswald's breathing heavily, now, looking up at Edward with expectant eyes.  
“I don't want to hurt you,” Edward says, “But I will. Not like he does, either. You won't like it. Will you calm down?”  
“Yes,” Oswald huffs.  
“Now, I'll be me, and you can be you. Is that all right?”  
“Yes,” Oswald says with a pout.  
“Good. I'm sorry, but this is really the only way that works for me.”  
“I guess I was a little... unreasonable.” Oswald says this as though the words hurt him coming out, which makes Edward appreciate it even more.  
“Thank you.” Releasing one of Oswald's wrists, he kisses him. Now, Edward can let go; now, he's safe. He can trust the warmth and softness, that wet, melting feeling. It's just physics, unfolding into chemistry, blossoming into biology, and he knows it so well. It knows him, too, and all of the familiar, welcoming feelings come to the fore, in his skin, and underneath, as Oswald's tongue touches his, and Oswald's free hand ambles up his cheek, and the sum of their exhaled breaths form a cocoon of soft sound around them. How could anyone get tired of this?  
He steers Oswald toward the bed, and Oswald lets himself be reclined and undressed. This is good, too. Even seeing the same body again and again is exciting for the revelation. Those delicate bones. That white skin, with its peculiarly dark blue veins. How the skin flushes. How the chest rises and falls with dramatic grace, with each agitated breath. If something is good, it never stops being good. All of Oswald's little sounds. His funny, frustrated sighs. The deepening pink of his lips, and the way that particular shade repeats, all over his body.  
But just for fun. For the sake of novelty.  
“What would he do, now?” Edward asks, letting out a rivulet of laughter at Oswald's answering frown.  
“Don't make fun of me,” Oswald warns, the threat diminished somewhat by his roseate bareness.  
“No,” Edward says more soberly, moving slightly to the side, and slipping his hand between Oswald's thighs, “I'd like to know.”  
A velvety little exhalation, as Oswald's head falls to the side. He likes to be talked to.  
“Does he talk to you?” Edward continues, “Does he know that you like this?” He rubs his thumb in a drop of pre-ejaculate, and spreads it over the head of Oswald's cock.  
“No,” Oswald sighs, “He doesn't talk very much.”  
“What does he do?”  
Dreamily, Oswald smiles. “He fucks like he's desperate. Like it's the only way out of something.”  
Edward frowns.  
“No, I didn't think you'd understand.”  
A twisting motion of his wrist, and Oswald cries out. Then, he laughs. “You're wrong again. He's not cruel. I think that the only person he really wants to hurt is himself.”  
“Turn onto your side. This is hurting my wrist.”  
Looking very pleased with himself, Oswald does, and Edward fits into the space behind him. This is much easier on his wrist. Like this, it doesn't take long to make Oswald come. Then, Edward's wiping his hand on his shirt, taking it off. Turning again toward Oswald, kissing the back of his neck, his lacerated shoulder. Turning him onto his back to kiss his mouth, his throat. Suddenly, Edward needs something. Needs it like he didn't a moment earlier, when he had his hand between Oswald's legs; or earlier, still, when they were playing that absurd game. What could have changed?  
He undresses completely, and he's on top of Oswald again; kissing him, touching him. There's something so satisfying about digging his fingers into Oswald's flesh, feeling Oswald start against him; the fitful motion of his body hitting Edward in the right places. Frantically, Edward tries to think of what to do next. Everything is both too much and not enough. He wants to fuck Oswald in some new, some impossible way, unknown to them both. And to Jim Gordon. To know Oswald's body as no one ever has. Unbidden, Kristen drifts out of the darkness, no longer just a suggestion but a full image, and Edward thinks about what he did with her, and what he did to her. How all of the Tom Dougherties of the world could eat their hearts out, because Edward had pried from her body delights that the likes of them couldn't even fathom. He smiles. He looks at Oswald, eyes closed in reverie, pressed beneath the weight of Edward's caresses. There's certainly one place Oswald will never go with Jim Gordon.  
Edward lowers his head, kisses Oswald's throat again, bites him very gently, creating just the slightest impression of his teeth. The mark will fade very soon. Surely, by the time Oswald's next with Jim, it'll be just a memory. If Oswald even remembers this. So, Edward thinks of all of the other things he could do to Oswald. All of those things that can't be undone.  
And even for these new and precious possibilities, when Edward comes, it's the same as always, never in any way less, but always more, for the presence of this cherished body. He kisses Oswald, and Oswald kisses him back- so soft, now that all of the venom has been fucked out of him. Edward presses their bodies together, feels Oswald's embrace tighten. Edward doesn't really mind sharing. As long as it truly is sharing. As long as Oswald still has something to give him. When the time comes that there's no longer anything left for Edward, Edward knows that he can just take everything. Keep it all for his own, forever.  
Until then, though, there's no reason to change a thing.


End file.
